Heritage
by pepitaofelia
Summary: Everyone try to find happiness. Some of the mechs didn't care about the suffering they cause, reaching their goals. The consequences of their actions affecting every one, twisting fates. This is a story of a saboteur, who try to find love despite past tragedies, a young communication officer learning his true heritage, and a guilt ridden ex-enforcer, searching for forgiveness.
1. Chapter 1

Blaster was bobbing his head to the rhythm of the music he was listening, as he walked the corridors of the Ark. He felt content, as he worked on the details of the next party, already mixing beats, and tunes in his head. His carrier always said he had an exceptional audial for music. He assumed, he inherited his incredible musical hearing from his carrier, ( considering, he never knew his sire ), just as his cheerful extrovert personality, friendly nature, and hid his fierce love for dancing.

He knew he looked nothing alike his carrier, who was considered one of the prettiest among autobots, and was desired even by Decepicons. Blaster was bulkier, and a way more taller, some of the autobots described him being sluggish, until they saw him dance. Then, his slouchy posture disappeared, and he moved with a grace of a turbo-cat. Even his flamboyant paintjob was the total opposite of his carrier's monochrome.

With a set of dance steps, he entered the rec-room, returned the enthusiastic greetings, and answered some questions, about his, and Jazz's next party. Then, in the other corner of the room, he noticed the merry band of poker playing regulars: the Lambo twins, Ratchet, Bumblebee, and Smokescreen, not surprisingly, playing poker.

-Hey Yo! Can a mech join in?- He asked, clapping Smokescreen on the back, grinning.

-Yeah, sure, sparkling if you have the credit to buy in.- grumbled Rarchet

-Although you should know, we are not fooling around. You should consider carefully if you really want to enter the clash of cunning, luck and superior acting skills between these fine gentlemechs.- Ranted Smokescreen, as Ratchet rolled his optics, grumbling some more.

\- Ha bring it on!- smiled Blaster, as he seated himself.

After arriving to earth, the Autobots took over a lots of elements of human culture, like their music, art, video-and other games. After one of the human soldiers teached the autobots how to play poker it became the number-one favourite game of the inhabitants of the Ark.

As the afternoon turned into twilight, Blaster started to regret his decision of playing poker with Smokescreen, who methodically continued to rob them blind, every one of them, challenging, them with well placed mocks. Indeed, the son of a glitch of a Praxian was the uncrowned king of poker.

True to his gambling heritage, Smokescreen was unbeatable. On the base only one mech could beat him in poker. Smokescreen found his match in Jazz, who was equally sly, whose acting skills was honed to the brink of an art form, energy field unreadable, and most importantly he was in the good graces of lady luck just as Smokescreen himself.

Secretly Blaster was gloating over the fact that Smokey's aft will be handed to him very soon.

-Hey Jazz! Are you in?- asked the Praxian noticing the saboteur.

-Naah mech….. Ah'm outta credits…Ah needed all mah savings ta buy a custom made, transformers sized saxophone- Blaster bursted out laughing. Jazz displayed his mock-hurt facial expression, as the others laughed.

-Ah Primus… Ya'r way too corny…- Blaster shook his helm.

-Ya wound me mech- said Jazz in a very dramatic manner, covering his chest plates with both of his servos.

-I think you are just afraid of a good, old fashioned aft whooping-pushed Smokescreen.

-Now, that's a challenge aint'it? Mah reputation is at stake, so consider ya challenge accepted.- answered Jazz

-Hey wait a minute! What about paying?

-Ya know what?- asked Jazz with a seductive smile on his lip-plates.- If ya win, Ah let ya frag me.- Jazz's visor glinted mischievously.

Blaster actually spat out his energon, he sipped a second earlier, staining the cards in his hands.

-Oh pit.. Ah didn't needed that mental image- said Blaster, covering his optic with a servo, massaging his temple-plates.- It's time for me ta go anyways….

-'Night kiddo- waved Jazz- Oh an' don't forget! Tomorrow in tha rec-room, ya, meh and the detailed plans of that party.

-Ya got it Boss!- Blaster mock saluted, as he slowly stood up. As he exited the room he heard Smokescreen.

-And what if you win?

-Ah get to keep all of ya credits…

-What?

After five more rounds, Ratchet left the room, penniless, without saying goodby, constantly grumbling about certain cheating sons of trash compactors, and swearing he would never play poker again. His behaviour wasn't even acknowledged. Soon the others left, not being able to keep up with the two poker-masters lucky streak.

Jazz suddenly broke their fierce kiss, as he was pinned to the wall.

-Do ya realize Ah let ya win? Do ya?

-Of course you did.- Smokescreen resigned his fate, that he would not win this argument, not that he minded it anyway, Jazz providing plenty of distraction, and compensation.

-Ahm glad ahm lost.- whispered Jazz between moans.

-Just as I. Although you didn't really took chances with that bet.- grunted Smokescreen, his servos roaming Jazz's chassis.- If you had won, you would have had all my credits. And if you would have lost, which you did… let's just say you wanted to be fragged anyway.

\- Awww Smokey ... Quit tha psychoanalysin' an frag meh inta tha wall already! - giggled Jazz, grabbing Smokescreen by his chevron, pulling him down into another kiss. The praxian rolled his optics, as he felt Jazz wrapping his legs around his waist. In this position he had the leverage to harass Smokescreen's wings.

-Nghhh… Ah think Ah have a thing for doorwings- said Jazz as he licked the quivering appendages.

-I think you have, indeed.- approved the other, finding it more and more harder to talk coherently under Jazz's ministrations...

Their night was fun, decided Smokescreen as he wearily embraced the recharging bot beside him. Jazz definitely knew how to have a good time. Although the smaller bot was stunningly beautiful, fun in the berth, an easy conversation partner, and a ruthless warrior, Smokescreen knew for a fact that they didn't loved each other. They were regular berth partners, blowing up steam together, but every single mech could tell the same thing about Jazz. There was no bot on the ark who have never ever slept with Jazz, at least once. He even interfaced with Ironhide. Smokescreen shuddered to the thought of interfaceing with the ancient bot. As Jazz shifted, Smokescreen smoothed a digit over the still recharging, visored mech's delicate cheek-plate. Jazz had the darkest protoform skin he have ever saw, mused Smokescreen. He remembered when he first met with the saboteur, he found it quite exotic,he later heard it was the trade-mark of Polyhexians just as Praxian had their doorwings. The only other bot, who had the same dark protoform skin, was Blaster. Jazz shifted again.

\- Prowl- mumbled Jazz quitely.

Smokescreen felt his spark squeezing. Sometimes he just wanted to kick some sense both into Jazz, as well as into Prowl. He really loved his socially impaired brother, with his perfectionist attitude, and with his workaholic tendencies, just as Jazz did obviously. The saboteur was constantly following him, trying to spend as much time with the ex-enforcer as he could, bringing him energon, when he was too tired, or too busy to take a brake, playing strategy games with Prowl, and Jazz even helped him clean his doorwings, which was the ultimate act of trust between praxian bonded couples. Despite these facts, Smokescreen knew that there was no intimate relationship between the two monochrome. He knew that Prowl didn't felt himself good enough for Jazz, sending his secret love to his death day-by-day. He didn't even wanted to think about what could have happened in the past with the saboteur, that he denied himself to connect intimately to the only mech he truly loved, mused Smokescreen as the recharge sequence claimed his consciousness.


	2. Chapter 2

( this story takes place on earth)

Blaster described himself as a people person. Probably because of his outgoing personality, he considered the rec room as one of his favourite places. He loved the riff of the constant chatter, the friendly laughters, the occasional clatter of the crystal energon cubes. He also took great pride in the fact, that he was an integral component of the warm, teeming atmosphere. He always had a good word for everyone, constantly joking, smiling ( just as his carrier did).

Even though he loved the crowd, his favourite part of the day was the dawn. At that time of the day, the rec-room was deserted, and a strange feeling of calmness always came upon him, sitting alone nurturing his morning energon ration. He caught himself at brooding again, listening the faint electric buzzing of the Ark's circuity. This part of the day was his, and his alone.

After an earth hour, the other bots started to arrive, but by than Blaster switched back of being the laid-back, friendly, cool guy they all loved.

Late in the forenoon, Blaster noted, as Jazz waltzed into the rec-room, as always, cheerfully greeting the ones sitting around the tables, waving toward the video-game playing twins. As Jazz approached Blaster's table, Smokescreen addressed the passing saboteur. The yellow and red autobot caught the funny conversation between Jazz, and Smokescreen.

-How comes, that after every time we interface, the next day I'm getting the monitor duty- whined the praxian.- Three shifts in a row. That is harsh….

\- Ya'r way too paranoid, mech.- Blaster saw that it took a good amount of self control for Jazz, to hold back a snicker.

-I'm telling you this is Prowl's doing!- acted Smokescreen.

-How should Ah know? He's ya brother. An quit with tha conspiracy theories already! - said Jazz seemingly fretting, punching Smokey's shoulder wheel.

-Ouch.. Okay, okay… But maybe you two would be good for each other.

-Ya try ta set me up with ya bro in tha morning, after tha night we 'faced. Ahm tellin' ya, ya'r way too tactful.- teased Jazz, a dazzling smile on his lip-plates.

-You know I only trying to take your best interests into consideration.- winked the psychologist, quivering his doorwings.

\- Are ya tryin' ta insult me? Was Ah that bad last night?- pouted Jazz. Smokescreen actually laughed.

-You know that I love to play matchmaker. And what do you think about Blaster? - asked Smokescreen curiously- You two get on well, have the same hobbies, and interests… Even have a very similar personality.

-Ya'r the psychologist- laughed Jazz- Ahm quite surprised ya didn't figured it out already…

-What?- asked the other confused.

Still smiling Jazz touched Smokey's servo.

-Later mech! Ah have business to attend to.- said Jazz impishly, steering himself toward Blaster's table.

XXX

-Yo! Wanna hang with the cool crowd?- asked Blaster as Jazz threw himself into a chair.

-Ya know meh… By tha way, Ah have some cool ideas about our next project. Tha theme of the party should be: Jazz!

-Wow! Ah knew that everyone like ya, but that's just...wow. Ain't ya a little smug?- chuckled Blaster quitely.

-Nah mech. Ah mean, check this out- cockily Jazz pulled a saxophone, ( custom made, for transformers sized hands), out of his subspace pocket.

-Ya weren't jokin' last night.- said Blaster a huge grin plastered on his facial-plates.

-Nope!- said Jazz beaming with happiness. Then he played a few notes. - Ahm talkin' about Jazz, tha music style.

\- Sweet already know how to play that?

-Yep! We totally have ta have a jam session soon.

\- Ah…- faltered Blaster, as he felt a sudden searing pain in his spark. He tried to say something,as he clutched his chest-plates. Jazz was already on his pedes, trying to catch him, to ease his fall. The white-hot pain came in waves, its intensity increased by the minute. Blaster was only able to writhe in pain, on the floor of the rec-room, surrounded by startled bots. He could hazily saw Jazz's worried facial-plates, and he felt through the pain, that Jazz was holding his servo.

\- Carrier...t's hurts…- he managed to force the words out of his vocalizer.

\- Everything will be all-right, sweetspark.- Jazz soothed gently.

\- Jazz and Blaster…..What?- He heard Smokescreen's shocked question, as he fell into stasis lock.

XXX

Jazz was fidgeting, sitting on a medical berth, watching the prone form of his grown up sparkling, from a respectful distance. He didn't want to bring the mighty Ratchet's wrath upon himself, by angering the medic. He practically felt his chassis vibrating in worry, as he watched the Hatchet probing, and examining Blaster. Blaster being his creation, was the best kept, open secret ever. Only the most socially dense inhabitants of the Ark, and Smokescreen haven't figured it out yet. Despite of the no secret status of his secret, no one have ever figured out who the sire was, that knowledge was officially known only by Ratchet, Optimus, and Prowl. Not officially the twins knew too.

Jazz loved his creation more than he loved his own spark. He was very aware of the fact that without Blaster, he wouldn't be alive today. When the tiny sparkling extracted, he helped Jazz through the darkest periods of his life. After Blaster received the last of his grown up upgrades, back on Cybertron, they became close friends. Both of them knew, that they could count on each other in need.

Growing up orphaned, on the streets of his hometown, brought up by thugs, thieves, and pleasure-bots, Jazz swore, that if he would ever have a sparkling he would give up everything, for the little one, to be able to be there for the sparkling. During his carrying, and the following years, he wasn't booted out from the Autobots only by the courtesy of Prowl. It was difficult to raise a sparkling amidst of war, on a military base, alone, as a carrier, hiding his, and his creation's identity. He had to change his name, his appearance, to disappear for a while. At least until Blaster received his final upgrades. Luckily Cybertronian sparklings developed very fast, and were upgraded in an equally quick manner.

For a sparkling, reaching maturity, at least legally, only took a few decades out of their million year life-span. That few decade was counted among the happiest times in Jazz's life.

XXX

As Blaster stirred, the lithe black-and white saboteur had to restrain himself, not to dash over to Blaster's berth.

-Ow...What the slag was that…..- asked Blaster slowly opening his optics.- What's wrong with meh Ratchet?

\- Congratulations. You are perfectly healthy, as far as I'm concerned. - growled Ratchet, his voice raspy.

-Then what the pit just happened with me?

Whatever Blaster's condition was, The Hatchet wasn't very happy about it, thought Jazz. He also wasn't running around, barking First Aid's name, so the problem wasn't serious either.

\- Okay Doc-bot, what's tha verdict? Ya wanna make meh beg?- asked Jazz, humoring Ratchet's good mood.

-I hope You know that your precious sparkling just gave me a slagload of work- grumbled the medic, pointing toward Jazz. The ambulance-bot must have been in an exceptionally good mood, as the saboteur noted, he didn't even took out his trusted wrench. Yep. The Ratchet was almost smiling.

\- As I said, you are in a prime health condition. The pain you experienced, was the symptom of having your first symbiot.

There was confused silence in the room for a minute, in his bewilderment Jazz could only stare at Ratchet's smug faceplates, than back to the thunderstrucked Blaster sitting on the med-berth.

-What? How's that even...Ah didn't even... Ahm a symbiote carrier?- asked Blaster excited. He could hardly held himself seated upright, when Jazz suddenly collided with him, hugging him tightly.

\- Ahm so happy for ya! This is so wonderful… Hey! Waitaminute! Ya shared sparks with someone and didn't tell me about it? Ah thought Ah raised ya better than this! - fretted Jazz.- C'mon! Spit it. Who was he? An' most importantly HOW was he in the berth?

-Jazz, symbiote carriers didn't need another progenitor. The kindling just happens randomly- Ratchet enlightened the saboteur.

\- Ah have never shared sparks with no one. Ya know that- said Blaster flustered.- Ah have never even interfaced with no-one... Ya know… Waiting… waiting for the One...

\- Awww. Ya'r just like me when Ah was at your age….- said Jazz dreamily.- What?- asked sharply when both Blaster, and Ratchet looked at him incredulously.

\- Ah still remember mah carrying period, the mood-swings, the purging of mah thanks, the sudden feel of fatigue… Good ol' times…- sighed the visored mech.

Seeing the scared expression on Blaster's faceplates, Ratchet cut in:

\- He would have none of that. For Primus sake! He isn't carrying a sparkling, just a symbiote. Blaster your period will be much shorter, than one of a 'normal' mech's. Your system don't have to supply the nanites, and minerals to produce a protoform for the newspark. When your time is due, we will extract the newspark, and place him in a special tank, where the spark would build the protoform body around himself.

\- Ah still can't believe it- rejoiced the patient, then he suddenly turned serious- Uh… About the extraction…- Blaster hesitated.- Will…Will it hurt?

\- Pit yes!- said Jazz.

\- No.- answered the medic.

\- You are way too mature, Jazz- Ratchet shot an accusing glance toward the black-and-white saboteur.

\- An' believe meh, he raised meh.- grumbled Blaster- It's a damn miracle that Ahm still alive…

Ratchet smiled to himself, as he was listening the good-natured verbal sparring between carrier, and creation. Although he was happy for them, he knew that this development will cause unrequired complications in the near-future.

XXX


	3. Chapter 3

XXX

Blaster was counting the days, as he felt himself in seventh heaven. He could already feel the symbiote's consciousness against his own, feeling it's joy, and hapiness especially when he sang.

The news about him, being a symbiote carrier came as bolt from the blue, some of the crew members didn't even believe the rumors. Smokescreen opened new betting pools, about the sparkling's birth-date, the identity of the sire, etc. Blaster found it hilarious, although he didn't know about a certain one, which was shot down secretly by Jazz, threatening to inflict grievous bodily harm to every single participant as well as to the psychologist himself. Smokescreen gave up, and stopped accepting bets against who Blaster's sire may have been.

Blaster didn't know a spark could feel such happiness, as he felt, planning parties, mixing music, being a communication officer, having his own radio show, and waiting for the arrival of his first symbiote

XXX

Jazz was so sleepy, he almost clashed, face first, with the locked doors of the training room. Yep. He definitely wasn't a morning person. If it were up to him, he was sure, he would have never seen the crack of dawn, ever. As he crouched down to hack the damn panel, he cursed the fragger, who locked it, muttering himself. After a few minutes, as he entered the airy room, he stumbled, and only his superior reflexes saved the lives of the two energon cube he was carrying. Primus… he felt exhausted. The other occupant of the room didn't take notice of him, or didn't show any indication he saw the other entering. Jazz nestled up to the wall, then slowly slipped down, into a sitting position.

Prowl was standing in the middle of the room, locked in the position of one of the key stances of circuit-su. Going through the motions of circuit-su kata was part of Prowl's morning ritual; coming here almost every dawn, bringing him energon, was part of Jazz's.

The tactician's movements were calculated, but graceful, every one of them executed with intense dedication, and professionalism. His stances were so perfect, that some mornings it was almost painful to watch, thought Jazz. As his optics swept the tall lean praxian, he assessed Prowl's haggard face-plates, and noted with a sigh that the doorwinged mech didn't have his "beauty sleep" last night, again.

Indeed, Prowl has led a spartan lifestyle, only fulfilling the bare necessities to keep his chassis intact, and presentable. Although his protoform, and spark could have supported it, he didn't have any mods, or extra armour for the sake of aesthetics. In the washracks he rinsed, but never waxed afterwards. When Sunstreaker suggested that a paint touch up was long overdue, prowl swatted the yellow nuisance away, although his paint job wasn't smooth, thanks to Ratchet's crude welds dotting his armour, covered only with a thin layer of paint. The only thing decorating his body was his cherry red chevron. He only recharged the bare minimum, to keep his first-class battle computer at maximum capacity. According to the crew, Prowl was a workaholic. Beside spending time with Jazz, Prowl have never indulged in hobbies.

Despite all of this, the Sic radiated regality, and calmness. A certain coldness always embraced his character, wherever he went. When he was angry, he was able to intimidate even Optimus, flaring his doorwings, ice cold fury in his optics. Although it was a rare occurence, considering the fact that Prowl almost never lost his legendary patience, but when he did, it scared the pit out of every-one.

XXX

.

The stern line of Prowl's mouth-plates morphed into a gentle smile, as he watched the dozed off saboteur. He was aware of the fact that Jazz hated mornings with a vengeance.

As he caressed the huddled up form with his gaze, Jazz opened his optics, under his visor.

-Ah betcha ya'r runnin' low- amused, Prowl recalled the early times of their friendship, when he couldn't understand what the sleek bot was saying.

-I can not grasp the concept of why do you insist coming down here, every morning.- answered Prowl accepting the energon cube.

\- Then Ah guess ya gonna hafta suffer in ignorance…-Prowl shot a disapproving look toward Jazz.

-You are incorrigible...

-Okay, Okay... It's for ya own good. Ah'm actually makin' sure ya refuel in tha mornin'.- said Jazz, yawning, and stretching his lithe body, arching his backstruts. - An' beside that, Ah loooove to watch ya hot aft while ya train...- Jazz put the emphasis on the word "love", playfully purring his engines.

-By the way, do ya happen ta know anything about Smokescreen having the monitor duty again? Three shifts in a row?

Prowl's doorwings twitched..

-Ah'm flattered by tha way... Ya really know how ta sweep a mech off his feet…- Jazz stood on the tip of his pedes, trying to cup Prowl's face, but his servo was promptly swat away.

-What did I told you about interpersonal space?

-Tsk...Ya'r such a buzzkill… It's ya luck that Ah love ya anyways…- It was an implicit agreement between the two; Jazz was allowed to flirt as bluntly as he wanted, (he did it anyway with everybody) and Prowl behaved oblivious about it.

The next few minutes passed in amicable silence, both of them consuming their energon. Then Jazz suddenly turned serious. As he turned his back on Prowl, he hugged his own upper chassis tightly.

-What are tha chances of tha Decepticons findin' out Blaster is a symbiote carrier?- Prow let his Tac-net came online, running every variables through the program.

\- There are a 96% chance that they will gain this information during the next 4 earth month. If we conceal both the information, both the existence of the symbiot, it will be a slight dislocation in the time-span, instead of the 4, it will be 7, with a chance of 99%, considering the fact that the symbiote demand for activity, and exploration will increase exponentially . If we are really careful, and disguise the symbiote as a regular sparkling, the chances of this information remaining a secret will increase, until the symbiote's last upgrade.

-Ah cannot just lock mah sparkling an' his symbiote in a room.- frowned Jazz

-What.. What… are - Jazz cleared his vocalizer- What are tha chances that they figure out that Blaster is mah creation? What if…

-Jazz.- said Prowl, his voice unfaltering, strict. He watched the smaller bot clamp down on his armor plates to stop the rattles caused by the tremors shooking his chassis.- Jazz- he said again, in a commanding tone, as the other was still trying to control his trembling.

-We will most certainly find a way.- Actually Prowl streched his servo, to touch Jazz's back comfortingly, but halfway he hesitated, than he let his servo fell back. He wanted to scoop the smaller mech up, wanted to embrace him, protect him, to keep him safe, to gave him a good life. But he couldn't. He would be powerless to fulfill his promises. He wouldn't hurt Jazz again, he wouldn't let the saboteur pay the price for his arrogance once again.


End file.
